Into the Storm
by mnwugn86
Summary: Oz is ruled by the dark powers, but Dorothy's now orphaned son Jonathan must help piece together the land his mother loved. Warning: Rated PG for dead munchkins. (I tried to warn you.)
1. The Homestead

Note: _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ does not belong to me. It belongs to the estate of L. Frank Baum, etc. So, don't sue me. Enjoy!

The dull Kansas sky turned an even duller shade of murky gray. We could hear the wind howling from afar.  
  
_ Twister._  
  
I could hear the windowpanes rattling in the midst of the uproar. I hated Kansas, hated the twisters that wreaked havoc upon our small farm on the prairie. Maybe the cyclone would destroy the house. Maybe it would be decimated, turned into a pile of dust, and Grandpa would finally decide that it was time to move on. After thousands of storms like this one, it was a wonder that he hadn't given up.  
Especially after the one Mama told me about.  
It was a trip beyond the clouds that transported the farmhouse to another world so fabulous and so amazing that no one believed her, except for me. She would put me to sleep with her stories of a dancing scarecrow, a man made entirely of tin, a talking lion, and a wicked witch. Her stories were like nothing else I had ever heard or read about. I wanted to go, wanted to fly over the rainbow to my mother's mystical world. She said that, one day, she would take me there.  
But that day never came.  
She talked often of her fantasy world (which she said was called Oz) to Granny's friends who came over. Naturally, they thought her mad.  
  
_Come with us  
  
Where?  
  
For a ride.  
  
Aunt Em? Where are they taking me?  
  
Just go honey_  
  
Mama was dragged off to the county institution, a few miles down the road. It wasn't her choice; but even Granny didn't say anything. The din of the neighbors' gossip had grown too loud for her to handle. Granny didn't care about Mama, she never did. There was an absence of a caring spirit in the house when Mama left, as if the grey plains had sucked the life and joy from the house and all who lived in it.  
A letter came from the institution last year.  
  
_What does it say?  
  
She's dead; that's what she deserves  
  
How  
  
Drivin' herself crazy, with all them stupid lies she tells  
_  
Over the howl of the wind, I could faintly pick out Granny's voice.  
  
"Jonathan?"  
  
I threw open the window and called out in vain, "In the house!"  
  
The black funnel was ever so close. It came nearer, closer to the house. I could now hear nothing, not even the screams of Granny Em. But I could see her.  
  
Enormous clouds of dust stirred. She looked up, and saw the black mass, glaring right at her. She screamed, a long scream, which sounded oddly like,  
  
"Dorrthhhheeeeeeeeeeeee!!!"  
  
The storm claimed her.  
  
I saw no more, only felt and heard. Heard the ripping of the wood, the pleading cries of the livestock, felt the frail house quivering in the midst of the turmoil, and felt the house rise from the ground and into the air.  
  
Only then did I feel and hear nothing.  
  
Just darkness.


	2. Horror

Cold. The cold air.  
  
I felt the cold air. It was as cold as death, lifeless. I was enshrouded by an aura of bleakness.  
  
I woke to find myself sprawled on the floor, with many bruises all over my body. My back ached in pain. Coughing up a mouthful of dust, I pushed back the remnants of the china dishes that lay around me and slowly brought myself up to a sitting position. Curious, I stared up at the shattered windowpane.  
  
Only fog was visible through the broken glass.  
  
This doesn't seem like a cheery place, I thought glumly.  
  
Using my bed, I was able to stand on my feet again. I hobbled over to the front door, kicking the remains of the interior of the house out of my way.  
  
I fumbled with the knob on the door, and finally ended up giving it a savage kick to open it.  
  
The already worn out front door had received even more wear from the storm. As soon as I kicked it, it heaved and cracked in to a million pieces.  
I was enveloped by a dense fog. It wrapped around me, crawled into my shoes, down through my clothes and clawed at me. It seemed like something evil, a darker presence.  
The fog dissipated, and I beheld into a horrible sight. What lay before me appeared to be the remnants of a small village. Judging by the look of the ruins, it had once been a happy place. Bright colors had turned dull, grass was withered and flowers had long been wilted. The houses in the town were not very big, almost as if they had been made for small children. The walls of these houses were crumbling, and the roofs had collapsed. A brook trickled through the middle of the city, and a winding brick road, which was coloured a dull yellow, puzzled me greatly. I then saw a most disgusting apparition. Scattered along this road of yellow brick were the bodies of tiny people, each about the height of a small child. Blood stained the path where the bodies lay. Frozen on their faces was an expression of the utmost horror. I shuddered.  
It was too much. I turned and began to retch.  
  
When I finished, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and collapsed onto the lifeless grass.  
  
I awakened about an hour later. When I awoke, the fog had lifted completely and light spilled over the tiny village I stretched, and my stomach rumbled. Slowly, I stood up and tiptoed towards the cupboard in the house. I pulled open the door and found a can of soup, crackers, and half a loaf of bread. I gathered it up and set it on a stable place on the splintered counter. The forks, knives, spoons and such had scattered everywhere during the storm. Crawling about on my hands and knees, I found a spoon, can opener, a bowl, and an iron pot. The matches were tucked in a drawer with the pens and pencils. All I needed now was a fire.

The idea of going outside again didn't seem enthralling. But I did need firewood. So, reluctantly, I walked outside again, this time prepared for what I saw. I made a point to avoid the dead bodies in the square and went towards the nearest house. It was a small cottage, and the doorway was so low and narrow that I got on my hand and knees to peer inside.  
Dead.

The smell of rotting flesh filled my nostrils. I shrank away in disgust and jumped up. I would have to do this quickly. Taking the axe that I found in the closet in the farmhouse, I lifted it and swung the blade into the thatched roof. It immediately gave way and fell on top of the cadavers. Since the house only came up to about my shoulder, I was able to reach in and hurriedly collect what I needed. Gathering the straw in my arms, I sat off back towards the farmhouse.

I sat the thatch down in a patch of dirt that was in front of the farmhouse. I grabbed the matches, the soup, and the pot and carried them all outside. I set the pot in the middle of the straw, poured the soup in, and lit the fire.

When the match hit the straw, the flames soared up in the air. It calmed down a few minutes later, and gently caressed the surface of the pot. The smell of the soup wafted up and found its way to my nose. I inhaled, and sighed deeply. Chicken noodle soup has always been my favorite.

I slowly savored every bite of the soup. I was hungry; for I had had nothing to eat since the day of the storm. I had lost track of all time; I could see neither sun nor moon, for the clouds obstructed all view of the sky. Licking the spoon, I set it and the bowl down on the ground. As I did, I heard a rustling in the shrubbery nearby. I froze. _Oh god_, I thought. _They're going to kill me too_. I moved as quickly and quietly as I could over to the house to grab the axe. But it was too late.


	3. A Familiar Figure

I shrank towards the wall of the house. From there, I saw a tall man, made entirely out of tin, emerge from the bushes. His head, arms, and legs were entirely jointed upon his body. He sported a large axe with a handle that was encrusted with many diamonds. He glanced around the village, yawned, and turned his head towards the farmhouse. Gasping, he took a step back. He stood there for quite a while, gaping at the decrepit farmhouse.  
I was so scared I could hardly breathe. I remembered the frozen look of terror on the little peoples' faces. As much as I tried not to think about it, I couldn't prevent the ghastly image from popping into my head. Just then, I remembered the stories Mama told me. About a dancing scarecrow, a cowardly lion, and a man made entirely out of tin...  
No, it couldn't be...  
  
Oh God.  
  
I'm in Oz.  
  
It all makes sense now. The little people (Munchkins, I think she called them), this 'tin man' (What was his name? Nick Chopper?)......

I relaxed a little. If the tin man knew Mama, then surely he must be friendly. Slowly, I stood up and began to proceed towards him. He saw me coming. He cast a wary eye upon me and said in a cautious tone, "Be you friend or foe?"

"You knew my mother."

A deep silence fell over us. He sighed, a sigh of despair and agony.

"Aye, I knew her." He sighed again. "She was a pretty lass."  
I studied the ground, afraid to say anything. He did likewise. Finally, I dared to speak, dared to utter the awful truth.  
"Er...ahh...she's...ah...dead."

He looked up, startled. He didn't move for what seemed like the longest time. Then he sank to the ground with a clank and began to weep.

He sobbed and sobbed, mourning the pretty lass that was my mother. All of a sudden he ceased to move, as if he was frozen. _Oh crap_, I thought. _I killed him_. But then, a groan reached my ears. The groan seemed to be coming from the Tin Man. I moved closer to him. The groan turned into the words 'Oil can'; his words were barely audible.

I remembered Mama telling me about her first meeting with Nick Chopper; how she and the scarecrow found him standing in a clearing with his axe uplifted and how he moaned for his oil can.

I dashed inside the house to find the oil can that Grandpa kept in the hall closet. I pried the closet door open and grabbed the can. I hurried outside and began to oil the Tin Man's joints. Slowly, he came to life. He flexed his arms and legs, making sure they functioned properly.

"A little more here," he instructed, pointing to his left knee. I did as I was told. He stood up, slowly but surely, once again stretching his limbs. He sighed once more, but this was a sigh of relief. "I apologize. When I get wet or cry, I rust," he said.

"Yes, I know." There was silence. I swore I could hear birds chirping off in the distance. I looked over at the bloody scene in the village. "What happened there?" I pointed towards the dead Munchkins.

"It is a rather lengthy story," he replied. "Sit down and I will tell you."


End file.
